Poetry: Park Bench
by Don Stouder
We stare at each other, the pigeon and I
she, hoping to charm me into giving her something I do not have.
Pieces of bread or cake, to help her live another day.
Oddly, it is I who receives the gift; the thought of survival.
She stares even as I turn to walk away, looking for money in my torn nylon billfold to buy some day old bread.